Summary: Jess's thoughts after leaving for New York without Rory. Just drabble really.
Rating: PG-13 because of some swearing...
Disclaimer: Jess and Rory definitely do not belong to me ... if I had Jess right now, there would be better things to do than write fanifction.
Comments: Please please please rewview. I desperately need help with my writing ... it has a looonng way to go.
And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand.
It was worth a try. Even though you knew all along she'd say no. Fuck, did you really think she'd even consider it? Rory Gilmore went to Yale. Roroy Gilmore went to functions. Rory Gilmore did not run away with random street trash to New York. You never even had a chance.
What did you expect, that she'd follow you around the country? That she'd drop everything, school, dependable Dean, her whole life, just because you decided to leave? What did she care if you were turning your life around for her? You should have known better. You stupid, stupid son of a bitch, Jess.
Rory doesn't give a damn about you. She thought she loved your mind. She didn't even know your mind. Hell, you don't know your mind. The scars are there; the dammage done. She never could have loved you. Dean was a clean slate. Dean didn't have a past that haunted him. Dean didn't have the scar on his lower back from that knife wound that never quite healed right, probably because you never bothered to get it stitched up properly. Yale alumnis could make her happy. A lost boy with no money and no future couldn't. Why didn't you see that? Fuck, Jess.
You hate yourself on the train ride home. You moron, did you really think she cared? You dig into your bag, pulling out the scarf. Her scarf. She left it at your house a year ago, but you never told her. It's blue and green stripes set off her eyes pretty good. You take out your last cigarette and your dog-eared copy of Charles Bukowski stollen from the public library when you were 14. You take a drag, and start reading in a crackly voice aloud to the folds of fabric.
The scratchy scarf reaches up to dry a lone tear from your cheek. Fuck her.
I just want you to know who I am.